Love and Communism
by loveandcommunism
Summary: A slightly historically accurate love story!       DISCLAIMER: Although our stories are based upon historical fact, certain details  specifically those concerning romance, are the offspring of our imagination. Interpret them however you please.
1. I Can't Do It Without You: 26 10 1917

**Evening of October 26****th**** 1917**

Trotsky wasn't sure why he was there. Although, he felt that after all this time that invitations were no longer necessary. The revolution was almost over. They had had a meeting with the other officials once Lenin had returned from Finland but...Trotsky needed him alone. Trotsky stared at the door, the only thing between them.

He turned the handle and entered the room.

There was a roaring fireplace to aid the harshness of the Russian winter. Lenin stood there with a glass, the clear vodka shimmering.

"Trotsky, my friend," he said in what seemed like a strained voice, "I was hoping to speak to you soon."

"Yes...yes," Trotsky was slightly taken aback, but pleased. How could he not be pleased? He closed the door and when he heard it thump into the doorframe behind him he felt like it was just him and Lenin and no one else in the world. He took a seat in front of the fireplace and the two of them were silent for a while, as they did not want to ruin their reunion yet. It was too hard to say anything, but say things they must.

"It's looking good there, I dare say that our victory is a certainty," Trotsky said eventually, staring at Lenin's back. Lenin turned around and smiled slightly, but the smile seemed so bittersweet.

"Of course it's a certainty, you planned it all and...," Lenin closed his eyes and took a sip of his drink, "God knows that you're always right."

"How very un-communist of you to say," Trotsky scoffed, but inside he felt the warmth of Lenin's compliment.

"I suppose you're right," Lenin sighed, "we shouldn't speak of God. There must be no God."

There was another silence, until Trotsky said, "then there is no damnation."

"There never was, there has only ever been the judge and jury of the people," Lenin answered, as if this was something that he thought about often.

"Shall the Bolsheviks not be the judge and jury once we...once _you _lead us all?" Trotsky inquired.

Lenin furrowed his brow, "why shall you not lead us all? This is your masterpiece and I can never take that away from you."

"We've been over this before - you don't have to," Trotsky stood up, "I'm _giving _it to you."

"Well, what a marvellous gift," Lenin looked up into Trotsky's eyes, "but how can I accept?"

"Because the people will never accept me. Like you said, damnation is only decided by the people and they have chosen you," he paused and dropped his head as he could no longer look into Lenin's eyes, "who wouldn't?"

"_I _wouldn't. I don't want something I don't deserve!" Lenin lost his voice and instantly regretted it.

"I dare say you've had too much to drink," Trotsky commented with a tormented smirk.

"I dare say that I agree with you," Lenin finished off his glass and placed it onto the mantelpiece, "but what of it? Some of history's best decisions have been made by drunken men."

"Don't say that," Trotsky snapped.

"Why not? Are you afraid of what decisions I might make?" Lenin raised his eyebrows, and for a couple seconds all bitterness and torture left his expression.

"Should I be?" Trotsky asked, and then quickly shook his head, "no, no. You shouldn't say things like that, please."

"If I'm to be leader then I can say anything I want, and isn't that what you're after?" Lenin pushed.

"I...," Trotsky stuttered as Lenin came closer to him.

"And, then, shouldn't I be able to do whatever I want?" Lenin was so close to him that Trotsky couldn't bear it anymore. He grabbed him by his collar and smashed their lips together. Lenin quickly ran his hands through his friend's hair and continued the kiss. But as quickly as it began Trotsky pulled away, pushing Lenin back in the process.

"We can't do this!" He almost screamed, but it came out as an angry whisper.

"No...," Lenin seemed to have sobered up, and feel over in a slump onto the sofa, "we can't."

"Take the position! Just...take it," Trotsky said, exasperated and terrified.

"Okay...okay," Lenin nodded. There was another silence for a while, as Lenin sat staring into the fire and Trotsky stared down at his own feet.

"You know," Lenin finally broke it, "I can't do it without you."

"I know," Trotsky smirked again, and the two of them looked at each other once more.

"You won't leave."

"No, I won't," Trotsky – the new People's Commissariat for Foreign Affairs - confirmed, and sat down next to Lenin. They did not talk again that night. When the first ray of morning light entered through a crack in the thick velvet curtains Trotsky looked over at his comrade.

"I have to go," he declared and began to walk away. When the door to the room closed Lenin swallowed his pain and closed his eyes so that he could sleep.


	2. The Bolshevik Cause: June 1917

**The Bolshevik Cause  
June 1917**

Trotsky took a deep breath right before he knocked on the dark mahogany door twice with his fist, in an effort to slow down his racing heartbeat. He felt a dry lump in his throat. He had been going over and over this scenario in his mind continuously for days now, but he hadn´t yet managed to get accustomed to the idea of it. He had returned to Russia in a hurry, and now felt as though he hadn't rested at all up until his arrival at this very door.

When the door swung open at the touch of his second knock, his heart felt like it stopped altogether, when he saw Lenin standing at the far end of the room, facing the fireplace, his left hand nonchalantly stuffed in his pocket, his right holding up a crystal glass. He didn´t turn around, although Trotsky was certain he would have heard him. He cleared his throat.

"Welcome back, Comrade," Lenin suddenly spoke, a twinge of amusement in his voice. "I'm glad to see you found your way back from Nova Scotia."

"Are you truly?" Trotsky asked. Lenin didn't reply. "After everything that has occurred I would expect you to want me cut out of your life completely."

Again, Lenin said nothing. The only sound in the room was that of the soft crackling of the sparks on the wood in the fireplace. Trotsky shuffled on his feet uncomfortably, looking around the room. The sun was already sinking, that night in June. Trotsky hesitantly approached the desk, and turned on the mushroom shaped lamp on it. The light sprung from it, but remained confined in a small circle so that the rest of the room now seemed even darker by contrast. Trotsky stayed in the sphere of light, looking at Lenin's dark silhouette.

"Why are you back?" Lenin asked solemnly, as he slowly began to turn around. Trotsky felt his heart enter into a nervous, frenzied beating again as he looked into Lenin's eyes.

"You were right," Trotsky practically whispered, looking at Lenin with open eyes. "You were, I see that now," he continued in a more determined voice. "And although I don't agree with everything you've done in the time of our separation, I agree with what you're calling for now." Then he started speaking faster. "Kerensky is losing power as it is. This is our window of time- this is where we need to jump in, and do what we have set out to do for years now. Marxism must prevail, the insurrection must take place, and I acknowledge it can't be done my way, I can't-"

"Lev-" Lenin interrupted, taking two steps towards Trotsky who, in turn, hurriedly stepped back.

"No, listen. I know I have my faults, but you have wronged me as well- which is why I now offer you my… participation, in the cause. In the hopes that we might move forward."

Lenin began to display the hint of a smile. "Those are very true words indeed."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"You are right. I did think that time, that a slow process would be enough, but-" Trotsky wavered, his mouth gaping, looking for words. "But it's not. Russia needs your-" he wet his lips. "I need you." He breathed heavily for a while. The speaking of those words seemed to have drained nearly all energy from him.

"You want to join the Bolshevik cause?" Lenin asked, a smirk plastered across his face.

"I do."

Now Lenin smiled, and nodded as he looked down. He walked over to the left of the room, and carefully placed his now empty glass on a table.

"I was worried I might never hear you say those words," he said softly, looking up at Trotsky with eyes that shimmered with the glint of kindness.

"How couldn't I say them," Trotsky murmured. Trotsky faintly returned Lenin's smile, and then Lenin took a few last steps towards Trotsky, and planted both hands on either side of his face. Still smiling that smile with its mocking air about it, he looked Trotsky in the eyes for a few seconds before slightly tilting his head and decisively planted his lips on Trotsky's.

Taken aback, Trotsky remained frozen under Lenin's hold. As Lenin finally pulled away, he continued to stare at him in shock.

"Welcome back," said Lenin, and walked out of the room.


	3. Goodbye: August 1903

**August 1903**

Trotsky, barely a man at twenty-three, stood outside of Highgate cemetery, eagerly puffing on his last cigarette in the midnight chill. He held in one hand a letter that he had received in March of that year, addressed to all party members - but he knew it was meant for him. The letter had become frayed and soft from it having been read so many times.

"'_Pero has been contributing to every issue for several months now; he works in general most energetically for the Iskra; he gives lectures (in which he has been very successful). In the section of articles and notes on the events of the day, he will not only be very useful, but absolutely necessary. Unquestionably a man of rare abilities, he has conviction and energy, and he will go much farther."_

Pero...his pen name as a writer for _Iskra. _That was when the six editors had split and the writers were to choose sides. That was when the cracks had just started to show, and Trotsky didn't even find out about it until he'd read it in this letter. A man of rare abilities it said.

Oh, what did it mean now? Three Mensheviks had been kicked off the board. Martov had stormed off and Trotsky...he had to follow him didn't he? He caught himself before his hands ripped the letter. The last year all laid in waste now.

No, that wasn't true. He couldn't persuade his heart of it.

"Hello," announced a voice, and startled, Trotsky's head darted upwards. He stared into the face of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, and quickly stuffed the letter back into his pocket. His senior leisurely walked towards him.

"Hello," Trotsky replied, and threw his cigarette butt onto the street. He watched it get smothered in a puddle and shuddered.

The two of them didn't look at each other as Lenin walked ever closer and ended up leaning against a stone wall by Trotsky's side. A biting wind whistled through the street and Trotsky closed his eyes.

"I'm leaving."

"Why?" Lenin asked curiously, but his tone did not hold any surprise. Perhaps the curiosity itself was fake, Trotsky mused.

"Because Martov is right and because I don't agree with your ideas," Trotsky dully explained, and turned to face Lenin, "because I believe in permanent revolution and that can only be achieved from below."

"Are you always so idealistic?" Lenin smirked, but it didn't seem cruel. It seemed soft and painful.

"I try to be," Trotsky answered quietly, as if unsure himself of what he was saying.

"Good," Lenin voiced, "I would not wish for you to ever lose that virtue." Trotsky could have laughed at that word. "Tell me," Lenin began, "how did you escape?"

"I stole a man's name and ran," Trotsky turned to Lenin and smiled, "we've known each other almost a year and I've never told you that?"

"I'm sure you haven't told me a lot of things," Lenin said.

"No," Trotsky looked away, "I suppose I haven't."

"Why are you leaving Lev?"

"I've already told you."

"Yes, but you lied," Lenin told him, "and I think I deserve more than that."

Trotsky quickly spun around, outraged, "how dare you say that to me? I have given you...I have put my life into that newspaper and I have read and listened to every damn piece of Marxist-Leninism you've uttered! Are you calling me a liar because you don't think it's possible that anyone can disagree with you? Well that's not fair because you will _never_ find a man so dedicated. Do you not think I'm allowed to follow what I believe in?" He was close to tears and when he was done his hands were limply positioned on top of his chest.

"I think you're running away from what you believe it," Lenin said to him calmly, "and I think _you _deserve more than that."

Trotsky's eyes were wide as he stared at him, and his lips were ajar and shaking. It was cold, so damn cold.

"I hate London," he said, "England is nothing but the last ward of the European madhouse."

"Yes and fascism is nothing but capitalist reaction," Lenin quoted Trotsky back to himself in a soft mocking tone, "indeed you've said many things that I will always remember. Such as that ideas that enter the mind under fire remain there securely and forever. I remember everything you've ever said to me."

Trotsky shook and couldn't think of what to say. It wasn't fair what this man could do to him. Lenin put his hand on his comrade's cheek. Trotsky took in a sharp intake of breath and shuddered.

"Tell me you don't want to stay," Lenin looked into his eyes, "because I don't believe it."

Trotsky stared at him torturously and then suddenly and briskly brushed the hand off his cheek. "I can't."

With that he stepped away from the other man and with one last glaring exchange he ran away.


	4. Very Well: 26 10 1917

**Very Well  
26****th**** of October 1917  
**

There were stains on the tablecloth. All of the Bolsheviks had been shifting about agitatedly, and in the process had continuously spilt the tea on the white sheet on the table. The revolution had come to an end, but the Bolsheviks still had much to consider. After the defeat of Kerensky and the departure of the Mensheviks, a new government would need to be composed.

"And comrade Trotsky," a man on the far left of the table said, raising his voice loud enough so that it rose above the chatter of the private dialogues that rimmed the table. "What position will he fill."

Lenin smiled at him faintly, and nodded, as if he had been expecting the answer. When he stood up, he made it clear that he had thought of it before.

"As far as comrade Trotsky is concerned," he spoke with an air of authority in his voice, "I propose that he be the one to head our government as a whole." He concluded his statement with a content smile, and began to search the faces of his comrades for agreeance.

After an initial second of shock, Trotsky suddenly shot up out of his chair on the other end of the table, his face wild with indignance. The chair clattered against the cold tile floor as it regained its balance.

"I believe I had made it explicitly clear it was my intention to handle the policy of the press," he stated, the anger palpable but subdued in his voice.

"You have, but I suggest you set your sights higher than that," Lenin replied calmly. "Why does that offend you so, comrade?"

"Because- this proposal is highly unexpected and, and- inappropriate! I won't accept it." Trotsky exclaimed, his eyes wide.

"Why ever not?" Lenin insisted. "It was you who stood at the head of the Petrograd Soviet that seized the power."

"I won't have it." Trotsky retorted.

"Well I refuse to waste my most valuable comrade on such work as managing the policy of the press," Lenin explained, articulating his last four words pointedly. His tone grew more solemn now.

For a few seconds at least, the entire room shook with the laden silence that filled it. The other Bolsheviks stared incredulously at the faces of the two standing men. Then Lenin broke the enchantment.

"You will not take it, then," he stated more so than asked.

"I will not," Trotsky confirmed. His jaw was still clenched, and he continued to stare at Lenin with poignant eyes, as if he was testing to see if the latter had truly accepted his refusal.

"Then take over the People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs."

Trotsky exhaled, relieved. He realized now that Lenin was willing to compromise, and so Trotsky replied in a calmer voice.

"It would be inappropriate for a Jew to take charge of the police in a society drenched with anti-Semitism," he mumbled.

"Now, comrade. If you persist in refusing each position you are offered one might begin to think your heart does not lie with the Bolsheviks," Lenin forced a smile onto his face but it did not erase the subtle sorrow that had seeped into his eyes.

"My reasons are purely political, I assure you." And with that Leon Trotsky sat back down, looking away from Lenin, who promptly followed suit.

"I propose we adjourn the meeting, and continue the discussion of these matters at a later date," Sverdlov now intersected softly, his eyes slowly darting back and forth between Lenin and Trotsky.

Lenin cleared his throat. "Very well."

And with that all got up from the table. Lenin was the first one to step out the door, but while everyone else trickled through the door's opening Trotsky stood still, resting his hands on the table, staring ahead of himself with a puzzled gaze. The last person out the door, Sverdlov, suddenly stopped walking, placing a hand on the right side of the doorframe as a way of holding himself inside the room. He turned around, his face pensive.

"Comrade, I have a proposal of my own," he began. Trotsky nodded at him, as a manner of acknowledgement.

"I proposed that he accept the People's Commissariat for Foreign Affairs," Sverdlov told Lenin when there were standing in the dark, small room together.

"You did not think that this would be more suitable to be discussed during our meeting?" Lenin protested.

"I wanted to discuss it thoroughly with him, and then inform the others whether he had agreed to it or not," Sverdlov explained.

"And did he agree?" asked Lenin. Sverdlov said nothing, but his silence presented Lenin with the answer.

"Lev Davidovich should be pointed against Europe. Let him take charge of foreign affairs," Sverdlov pleaded.

"What foreign affairs will we now have?" exclaimed Lenin.

"Lev has agreed to it. Rather reluctantly, I must admit, but he agreed nonetheless. I hope you would do so as well, comrade," Sverdlov concluded.

"Very well," Lenin sighed. "Let him do as he pleases," and with a dismissive wave of his hand he put the matter to an end.


	5. Bloody Sunday: 9 01 1905

**Bloody Sunday: 9****th**** January 1905**

Trotsky tried to brace himself from the brisk Swiss air, having only a thin coat as an aid. He felt quite resentful of himself for having underestimated the western winter. He kept glancing from the dusty clock on the wall to the ticket in his hand, feeling physically sick at how slowly the spindles were spinning.

All the speeches he had just delivered were racing through his head: all those countless notions on the topics of tsarism, world capitalism...Bolshevism. He exhaled sharply and his eyes continued to glue themselves to the clock.

How long had the disturbances been occurring now, he wondered. Labour forces were withdrawing themselves from their positions he had heard, amongst whispers that the army was deviating – but surely the riots hadn't started yet. He replayed all the conversations he had had in the past couple of hours to try and convince himself of this. No, the riots couldn't have started yet. When the train finally arrived he would have sprinted to its doors if he had not been caught in the suffocating wave of other aspiring passengers.

"Ticket please."

How long had he been sitting there now? He had watched the landscape change but he hadn't registered its significance. It was dark outside, but it was winter. Darkness didn't mean very much.

He handed his ticket over to the conductor. "Try to get some sleep, son," advised the man, "it's a long trip."

Sleep seemed quite a foreign concept. Just the notion was hard to comprehend and Trotsky merely nodded as he stared some more out of the window. There were no newspapers on the train, he knew because he had checked more than once. He quickly snapped round to yell at the retreating conductor.

"Sir, what's the news from Russia?"

The conductor looked back at him with a wry expression, "you're asking the wrong man."

Trotsky looked around the carriage, but lost hope of finding any answers from those present. For the first time in his life he felt a sting of distaste towards the working class. For not being able to tell him anything and for...no. What was happening in Russia was happening for the greater good. He refused to tell himself otherwise.

Sleep didn't come that night. When the train finally started to roll into Geneva he was amongst the first crowd to leak out of the doors. He felt dizzy and agitated, and all the people and all the colours that surrounded him seemed little more than blurs. He forced himself onwards and sought out a paper boy on the far end of the station.

"You there!" he exclaimed, and rushed towards him, "how much for today's paper?"

The boy looked up at him with wide eyes, in shock by the man's dishevelled appearance and the strangeness of his accent, "I'm sorry sir, but today's paper isn't in yet."

"What?" Trotsky's breathing began to sharpen, and he grabbed the boy by the lapels of his chalky blazer, "no!" His head shook as he stared at the boy and as soon as he realised what he was doing he released him in shock. He took a couple of steps back and noise seemed to fill his head.

"Alright." When Trotsky looked down he saw an outstretched hand wielding a newspaper. Trotsky nodded and took it, paying the boy as quickly as possible.

No demonstrations as of late.

He dropped the paper, and somewhat more calmly he walked towards the exit in order to get into a cab. The carriage ride made him slightly sick and looking out of the window all he saw was a terribly ugly city.

Martov and Plekhanov's faces were amongst the first that Trotsky laid his eyes upon; namely because they were seated together on the left and their expressions, like much of the other attendants, were both fevered with anticipation and tightened in worry and bitterness. The _Iskra _editorial board's bitterness came chiefly from the sharing of power between the two fractions of the party, and as this dawned upon Trotsky his eyes scanned the room.

The leader of the Bolsheviks, Vladimir Lenin, sat with a scattering of his own followers towards the other side of the room. He was staring right at him and Trotsky impulsively locked gazes with him. This seemed to amuse the other revolutionary and he offered him a faint smile but Trotsky could no longer hold eye contact. He had gotten what he needed, and besides, his physical weariness was beginning to take a toll on him. He felt the absence of a drive that was forcefully pushing him forward and instead tried to hold himself upright in his seat, avoiding any instincts he was experiencing.

"Comrades," Martov stood decisively, earning attention from the room, "we may all believe that this is a time for us to intervene in Russia, as the proletariat seems to have risen up against their tsarist persecutors. But I believe that the role of revolutionaries is to provide a militant opposition to the bourgeois government. Yesterday three-hundred-thousand of our Russian brothers and sisters were shot at by the tsar's army, resulting in deaths numbering in the thousands, and..."

The sight of Martov's face was becoming no more than a white spot in an expanding and oppressive blackness, and Trotsky's face turned to the Bolshevik leader as his body gave into a painful force that seemed to be attacking his conscience.

His chair fell backwards resulting in a clattering sound that diverted all attention from the speaker, and a soft but load thud was heard before those present witnessed Leon Trotsky's body passed out on the marble floor.

Waking up came in stages. First, Trotsky felt the floor underneath him and the air in his lungs reassuring him of his continuing life. The relief seeped in soon before the realisation of what had happened. Once again he felt overwhelmed but this time felt much more mentally prepared, at least in some matters. Next he heard breathing, but he wasn't sure from where, and he was pretty certain that he could open his eyes as the sunlight was alright streaming in through his eyelids.

He heard a door being swung open and as his eyes folded open all he saw was the departure of man who could not bring himself to stay.


	6. Puppet: March 1903

**March 1903**

"His articles are full of noise, and lacking in content! They do not justify giving him this position."

"He feels he has a talent, one that he wants to develop," Lenin said, raising his voice so as to be able to silence George Plekhanov, "and I agree that he should get the chance to do so."

Plekhanov shook his head angrily, marching to the other side of the room. "He is your puppet, Vladimir. You may not admit it, but you must realize that it is true. Forgive me for saying so, but I fear that giving Trotsky a vote would equate to giving you another one," he stated.

"I forgive you for saying so," Lenin replied, an air of mockery in his tone. This did not go unnoticed by Plekhanov, who sighed angrily.

"He is still developing. I dislike him."

"I am working to eliminate his shortcomings. He deserves a chance, don't you think so? You make your decisions awfully quickly."

The determination in Lenin's stare told Plekhanov that this issue would not be relinquished easily.

Lenin carefully closed the door behind him and sighed. He had taken but three steps forward when he saw Trotsky storm around the corner and towards him. The anger was radiating off his face. Lenin had to try hard to hold back a smile; Lev's passion, for some reason, never failed to amuse him.

"You were in there talking to Plekhanov, were you not?" Trotsky confronted Lenin in a loud voice, and then took a few more brisk steps until they were separated by not more than a metre. "I know he has been trying to prevent me from obtaining a place on the board, but-"

"Save your breath, comrade," Lenin grinned. "It has all been dealt with."

Trotsky furrowed his brow. "What does- how so, exactly?"

"The man will come around. I'll continue to fight for your admission to the board, but I think Plekhanov's position has softened.."

"He will come around?" Trotsky asked incredulously, his eyes searching Lenin's face.

"I have convinced Plekhanov that you are indeed not my _puppet_, as he so eloquently put it, but that you will exercise your vote according to your own reasoning," Lenin explained. "He didn't seem too convinced, or perhaps he was just stubborn, but he accepted the idea of you joining the meetings in an advisory capacity."

Trotsky nodded, his brow still furrowed. Absentmindedly, he raised his hand to his head, as if he wanted to pass it through his hair, but then dropped it suddenly. A few seconds of silence passed, in which Trotsky observed the floor with a puzzled look and Lenin observed Trotsky.

"Alright," Trotsky cleared his throat. His anger had passed now. "So you do not consider me your puppet, then?" he now grinned, raising his head again to look at Lenin. The latter wholeheartedly returned his smile, and took another step forward.

"I would find it most disheartening if the opinions which you have expressed thus far had resulted purely from some sort of coercion on my part," he said as they exchanged another honest smile.

"Well then I fear you might find it disappointing to know you have a… strong hold over me," Trotsky said cautiously, lowering his voice now. Then he closed the distance between himself and Lenin with one final stride, and bowed his head down until he could kiss him.

Lenin carefully returned the gesture, and for a lingering moment their lips were locked while their bodies remained separated. Then Trotsky pulled away. Neither one of them was smiling now.

"Perhaps a… hallway isn't the proper place for this," he mumbled.

Lenin nodded. "Now that you will be joining us on the board, others have requested that you improve your writing techniques," he replied, briskly changing the subject. "I claimed to be working to eliminate the flaws in your writing," he smiled now. "So I think it is best that I hold true to my word."

"Then that is what we shall do," replied Trotsky with a smile. A hint of sadness appeared in his eyes, which did not go unnoticed by Lenin. He understood that it grieved him to have to turn to their work each time they… interacted like this. But it had to be done.

Together they turned around. As they ventured down the corridor, Lenin raised his right hand and patted Trotsky on the shoulder, twice.


	7. I Can Keep You Company: December 1902

"**I Can Keep You Company"****  
December 1902**

An hour after they had left the Opéra Comique, Lenin found Trotsky sitting on the sidewalk along the Rue Saint-Marc. He sat slumped over, his hands dangling between his legs. His head was bowed down, but enough of his face was still visible for Lenin to be able to see he seemed rather miserable. Lenin felt a twinge of an emotion he had trouble identifying; it seemed most similar to endearment, he eventually concluded. Then he realized he had stopped walking.

A few seconds later he reached Trotsky, who still had not noticed that Lenin had joined him. Now that he was close, Lenin could see the crystal balls of water scattered over Trotsky's hair. It had been drizzling for a while now.

"I thought you would have reached your home by this hour," Lenin said as he sat down. Trotsky's head snapped up, and he smiled awkwardly at Lenin when he identified him.

"The shoes," Trotsky clarified, with a brisk nod towards his feet. Lenin laughed.

"Do they hurt that much?" he asked now. "I assure you I didn't know they would cause you such discomfort when I gave them to you."

"Yes," nodded Trotsky. "So I thought I would sit here for a while to let my feet recover," he grinned.

"All alone," Lenin added.

"All alone," Trotsky nodded. "Well. Not anymore."

Lenin chuckled, and then reached into his right pocked. He pulled out a cigarette, which had gone damp in his rained-on coat. He carefully placed it in his mouth, and then patted his pockets, frowning. But then his frown was turned upside-down, when Trotsky held up a box of matches in front of him.

"We make a great team," Lenin smiled, mumbling as the cigarette was still dangling in between his lips. He turned his face to Trotsky, who understood what he meant, and lit one of the matches. It took a while to light the soggy cigarette.

"Are you not having a good day, then?" asked Lenin, after exhaling a long string of smoke.

"Oh, no," Trotsky hurriedly said, raising his head to look at Lenin now. "No, the opera was- it was enjoyable," he grinned.

"Good," Lenin nodded.

A few more minutes passed by, and the rain had by then stopped falling down.

"Shall we carry on?" Lenin asked, indicating the road ahead of them. "You can't sit here forever, and now I can keep you company."

Trotsky smiled faintly again, nodded, and swallowed before he spoke. "Yes- yes," he said. Lenin couldn't help but smile at his cautious demeanor.

Together they got up. Lenin strolled along slowly, his hands casually stuffed in his pockets, while Trotsky hobbled ahead awkwardly beside him. They carried on in silence until reaching the Place du Carrousel, where Trotsky collapsed onto the white floor with a grunt. Lenin laughed, and the two of them received several weird looks from the Parisians surrounding them. He dropped down next to Trotsky, and closed his eyes as he enjoyed the fresh sunlight.

"We must look ridiculous," Trotsky mumbled. Lenin laughed again, even louder now, which slightly startled Trotsky. Nevertheless, he couldn't manage but be infected by Lenin's laughter, and his expression brightened as well.

"Enjoy it now, my friend," said Lenin. "After the proletariat revolution there won't be much time left to sit in a Parisian park."

"It almost sounds as if you dread the revolution," Trotsky said carefully."

"Of course not," Lenin shook his head, but the amusement still present in his tone showed that he knew he didn't need to convince Trotsky of that. "It will all be splendid."

"Not all of it," Trotsky contradicted him suddenly, and Lenin raised his eyebrows in surprise. Trotsky had rarely directly contradicted him since the moment of their meeting. "There will be a need for violence, which won't always be what one would call _splendid_,"

"You think so?" Lenin questioned him curiously. Trotsky looked at him in confusion. "You mean, you think there will be a need for violence?"

"Well, certainly," explained Trotsky, his voice gaining confidence as he spoke, "terror is necessary in times of revolutionary upsurge. Wouldn't you- wouldn't you agree?"

Lenin's smile was broad as he nodded slightly, and he observed Trotsky with an almost loving admiration. "Interesting. We will have to continue discussing that on a later date," he nodded happily.

"Why on a later date?" Trotsky asked.

"Because right now, it is time to keep walking."

Lenin was the first one back on his feet.


	8. The Twelfth Hour: 25 10 1917

**The Twelfth Hour****  
A Trotsky/Lenin Fan Fiction**

**25****th**** October 1917**

**1 PM**

The Petrograd Soviet screamed as he stepped onto the podium, as their leader immediately assumed the authoritarian manner that he had perfected through decades of speeches and struggles. The din lessened in waves as everyone stared up at the face of revolution. Leon Trotsky looked upon the dirty and anticipating crowd and put his hand to his chest. How many years had this taken?

Still, anticipation and anxiety was thick amongst the crowd in that large hall that day and every ear was poised as not to miss a word.

"Comrades," he voiced and immediately the roar of respectful cheering broke out, "on behalf of the Military Revolutionary Committee, I declare that the Provisional Government is no longer existent." Oh, the noise now. People were crying, frantically screaming and holding onto each other in sheer elation and wildness. Trotsky smiled faintly, and looked upon Kamenev at the back of the room who nodded at him cordially, "some ministers have been arrested. Others will be arrested in the course of a few days or hours," with every new declaration he received fresh applause, "the revolutionary garrison, at the disposal of the Military Revolutionary Committee, has dissolved the session of the Pre-Parliament. We have been on the watch here throughout the night and have followed the detachments of revolutionary soldiers and the workers' guards by telephone as they silently carried out their tasks. The citizen slept in peace," he looked across the room, "ignorant of the change from one power to another. Railway stations, the post office, the telegraph, the Petrograd Telegraph Agency, and the State Bank have all been occupied." The exhilaration of the herd of politicians that Trotsky effectively had to scream the last announcement: "the Winter Palace has not yet been taken, but its fate will be decided during the next few minutes."

He felt that there was nothing more to say as the people screamed and thanked him with teary faces. Trotsky stepped down from the podium and gratefully accepted the swarm of bodies that were rushing towards him. He shook hands and accepted the overflowing gratitude and trepidation of his people. They too understood that the seizure of power would only be the beginning to a setting up of a functioning socialist state, no matter the resources. As Trotsky was caught in this, he once more looked around for Kamenev, wishing to discuss further action with him. However, his eyes caught something wholeheartedly unexpected.

"Comrade Lenin!" Trotsky overheard, "the dawn of a new era is upon us!"

Lenin beamed, and his grin infected all those around him. The crowd, cautious in their chant began to bellow.

"Long live the Bolsheviks!"

"Four months," Trotsky hissed with his head cast down, "four months."

"I would have imagined that my obligation to hide would have been evident," Lenin stared at his companion, who was leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room. Lenin felt a surge of sorrow at the sight, "but I see now that this is not the case. In fact I may have been foolish to believe that you would think that way. I have heard of the letter that you sent-"

"You mean the letter that admitted my alliance to the party? The letter that directly concurred that I was as responsible for Bolshevik uprisings at any other official leader?" Trotsky smirked, and although Lenin could not look upon his face he felt the hurt in his tone and winced. He outstretched his arm as if wishing to offer comfort but sorrowfully dropped it.

"I wrote that letter with no doubt in my mind that I would be imprisoned for it," Trotsky finally turned around and Lenin saw the desperation in his expression, "and I have no doubt that you are aware that indeed, I was."

"What would you have had me do, Lev?" Lenin snapped, and Trotsky felt as if he had been cut, "as much as I admire your romantically idealistic sensibilities I cannot be directly responsible for them. I am more grateful than you can imagine for the fine effort that you have put into this revolution, and trust in me when I tell you that I shall never be able to thank you enough. But you – you have always been much more wary when it has come to the relationship between you and I – and yet now you wish to denounce me-"

"Stop!" Trotsky's fists were shaking, "why must you always," he paused, breathing heavily, "_twist _my disappointment into something that-" he dropped the sentence, not knowing how to end it, and started anther one that suffered from the same lack of rationalisation, "do you not think that it might weaken our position amongst the people-"

"I do not twist anything," Lenin interrupted, but it seemed so subtle that Trotsky was taken off guard. Lenin's voice was much calmer now, and it seemed to carry with it a sense of kinship and kindness, "I merely want you to stop trying to tell me that the true nature of this conversation is not to make me aware that I have deeply hurt you. You are an intellectually gifted man, so I shall not accept that you wish to tell me that you truly believed my absence would hinder Bolshevik development."

The two of them stared at each other from across the room, the atmosphere laden with unspoken truths. Night had fallen, and the revolution was growing around them. They were in a room in the Petrograd Soviet that was adjacent to the meeting hall. There was nothing in this room apart from chairs and some blankets put down by Anna Ulyanova.

"I have finally become reconciled to the postponement of the uprising," Lenin finally said, and laid upon one of the blankets, staring up at the adorned marble ceiling, "my initial fears have been distilled. If we are speaking honestly I had my reservations about being able to sway the public. You have aligned the soldier with the working man and what a wonderful sight it is."

Trotsky didn't know what to say, and after a couple of moments he joined Lenin's side on the floor. Lenin continued to speak of the developments made throughout the past couple of months. The night wore on and both men became aware of the fatigue that was encroaching upon their bodies. Trotsky had pushing himself so hard that his fainting spells had become more recent as of late, and seldom did he have the time to stop and remember to feed himself. He began to drift off, but did not wish to allow himself to sleep tonight.

"And what about the Winter Palace?" Lenin sat up, suddenly slightly panicked, "it has not been taken yet. Isn't there danger in that?"

Trotsky opened his eyes and slowly lifted himself up, "I shall telephone so as to inquire of the progress of operations there."

As he tried to properly hoist himself up, Lenin stopped him, "lie still, I will send someone to find out."

Trotsky felt slightly unnerved as Lenin left the room, and rolled over onto his side, further disallowing himself the comfort of falling asleep. Soon he heard footsteps coming towards him and followed Lenin's body and it rejoined it's earlier place by his side.

"I'm so tired Volodya," he whispered, "I'm so damn tired."

"I know," his comrade whispered back solemnly, "I know." With that they closed the space in-between them and pressed their lips together, not being able to hold off on that desire any longer.


	9. I So Strongly Despise the Thought: 1919

"I so strongly despise the thought"  
A Trotsky/Lenin fan fiction

**Autumn of 1919**

The air was starting to turn cold, but it barely went noticed by two men who stood on a train platform in the deep expanse of the Russian countryside. No, their attention was entirely directed towards Engineer Lomonosov, the operator in charge of the diseased Soviet transport system. Trotsky listened to their long Northern coats flutter in the strong wind as he turned his head to look upon a train on the tracks. Its very core looked like rust.

"Sixty percent have become virtually unusable," Lomonosov declared solemnly, taking a drag of a fat cigarette, "and," he looked up at Vladimir Lenin, his face without a trace of humour in it, "by next spring we expect this figure to rise to seventy-five. And as you may have noticed," he glanced in the direction that Trotsky was looking at, "we rely on bulky wood for fuel."

Lenin held in his hands the diagram that Lomonosov had given him earlier, containing in it predictions for the year nineteen-twenty. All of a sudden a grubby finger came over and forcefully pointed at an equally grubby graph.

"Here," Lomonosov paused darkly, "comes death."

"What is to be done then?" asked Lenin, his despair evident in his voice.

"There are no such things as miracles," Lomonosov replied. "Even the Bolsheviks cannot perform miracles."

At this Trotsky turned around to face his companion. Lenin was looking back at him, his expression as despairing as Trotsky imagined his own was. Neither one of them knew the technical workings of the transport system; a fact that only exacerbated their misery.

"Still," Lenin muttered dryly, "we'll try to perform the miracle."

"Well, this is no good," Trotsky was looking over at the predictions again later that evening. They were together in a carriage that was taking them back to Moscow, and Lenin was staring through the window as he watched the sky blacken.

"You shall spend the upcoming winter in the Urals," Lenin said, stating rather than asking, "I fear I am not capable of taking charge of transport myself. Emergency measures must be used to try and lift this situation."

"They are indeed necessary," Trotsky's hands shook as he folded up the documents and placed them in his leather-bound case. The two men stared at each other from across the carriage, their expressions grief-stricken yet oddly hopeful.

Of course there was hope in this. Miracles had been performed before. A shot to the neck had been survived.

At the memory of this, Trotsky winced. Lenin raised an eyebrow at this movement and by his comrade's expression knew what it was pertaining to.

"Must you worry so?" He spoke evenly.

"I fear that I am already being plotted against," Trotsky sighed; "you yourself have admitted that can only cause destruction of our central..." he stopped. He was so used to not speaking what he truly thought that it had turned into a natural instinct to disguise his words. "I so strongly despise the thought of you perishing." He whispered. Just the thought of that wound often haunted him.

There was a sudden jolt of the carriage as it rode over a rugged path and Trotsky lost his balance. He was flung out of his seat and he landed painfully on the floor.

"Are you sure that it is my condition that should be worried about?" Lenin made an ill-fitting joke that Trotsky wanted to laugh at but could not bring himself to do so.

"Please," Lenin held onto Trotsky's hand as he got up, "accept that was has happened is unchangeable."

"I wish to, but how do you-"

"I don't expect anything from you as I know well enough that you shall perform all tasks in life with the same mind that you have always possessed," Lenin informed him, "meaning that I expect nothing from you but that you approach things as you deem most fitting."

"Your faith in me is heartening," Trotsky looked up into Lenin's eyes, "I hope you aware that I reciprocate just as wholeheartedly."

"You seem to spend every other conversation somehow discussing how the party cannot do without me. I am fully aware of your faith in me," Lenin released Trotsky's hand and the latter placed himself carefully into his own seat.

"I...," Trotsky almost lost his nerve, "do not wish to do without you either, as-"

The carriage came to a halt as they had reached the first resting point in a village not quite on the outskirts of the city. Trotsky quickly regained his composure and both politicians gathered their belongings as they ventured out into the night. Their conversation had been for the moment lost, but certainly not forgotten.


	10. An End: 17 March 1921

"**An End"****  
17th of March, 1921**

Trotsky was strolling along the red brick wall. The crisp air stung as he inhaled it, but his breaths were calm and happy- a weight had been lifted off his chest. The proposals he had put forth a year prior had finally been accepted, and a theses for the implementation of the New Economic Policy. He was particularly pleased to know that the concept of a grain tax had been accepted, where it had previously been opposed by eleven votes. But now everything was different, as Lenin was on his side again. The conflict in the party was far from over, as the two months of embittered discussions were likely to lead to the formation of factions in the party, but knowing that Lenin and himself formed a solid front again formed a major element of relief.

Expecting that he would not be alone much longer, Trotsky leaned against the wall and complacently observed the inner grounds of the Kremlin. Indeed he was right, when he saw Lenin approach in the near distance. Trotsky smiled, knowing now that his relationship with his comrade had been rid of all disagreements.

"Good morning, comrade," Lenin said. Trotsky did not look at him, but showed that he was glad to see him with a wily smile. Lenin couldn't help but chuckle at the sudden change in Trotsky's appearance, in comparison to how he had behaved all through the congress.

"I saw you standing outside," Lenin spoke in a casual tone. "And as I found it most unusual, I decided to ask you why,"

Now Trotsky turned to Lenin suddenly, opening his mouth as he eagerly searched for the right words. "When do we ever have the time anymore to stand out side just for the sake of being outside?" he finally asked, smiling at Lenin when he finished his sentence. Lenin laughed again, so profoundly did Trotsky's mood amuse him.

"I mean it," Trotsky mumbled, looking down at his feet now while his smile slowly faded. Now Lenin nodded, as he too leaned back against the wall.

"I know," he sighed.

"Well we do now," Trotsky clarified. "For a while," he added, and Lenin understood what he meant.

"I must say, I feel rather foolish," Lenin confessed. And to Trotsky's look of confusion, he explained "it took me a year to realize your plans for the economic policy were exactly what Russia needed."

"Like you said. I am always right," Trotsky grinned, turning towards Lenin as he got back on his feet.

"I must say, it is refreshing to see you this carefree, comrade," chuckled Lenin, "surprising, almost."

"Well, I would assume it should be surprising. I could not have foreseen us turning to capitalism as a relief to our Russia's problems."

"It is but a temporary measure," Lenin sighed. His voice sounded monotone, unenthusiastic, as if he had uttered the same sentence many times already.

"Everything seems to be," Trotsky grinned. "War communism. Now the NEP."

"Indeed," Lenin inhaled sharply. His complexion seemed to turn a few shades whiter, as he took another shuddering breath.

"I'm sorry, I- didn't mean to offend you," Trotsky spoke hurriedly, noticing the sudden change in his comrade's conduct. Lenin, however, was quick to dismiss the subject with a shake of the head, and then took a few steps towards one of the gates nearby.

"Shall we spend a few more moments outside, just for the sake of being outside? Moscow awaits," he said with a complementary wave towards the gate.

But they never made it to a gate, as just a few seconds later Lenin's breathing became irregular again, and he seemed about to crumble into a heap. Trotsky instinctively leaped towards him, and caught him. Trembling, Lenin rested in Trotsky's arms, and they exchanged a worried look. Then suddenly they were surrounded by a group of guards. Trotsky hadn't even seen them approach, but they quickly, quite literally, took Lenin off his hands. Stumbling, the party began to make their way back to the building. Trotsky stepped forward, stretching out his hand in an attempt to make himself useful.

"Do not worry yourself, comrade, we'll take him back," one of the men hurriedly told him, looking back over his shoulder as he walked. Trotsky nodded, at him, pulling his hand back and awkwardly clenching it into a fist at his side. He tried to maintain a composed face, to feign nonchalance, though he suspected something about his face would betray him.

Nobody looked back at him, however, and so he stood frozen outside, feeling as though he had lost his sense of direction, not knowing in which direction he wanted to walk.

And just like that, it all came to an end.


	11. Each and Every Time: Late 1902

"**Each and Every Time"  
**A Lenin/Trotsky fan fiction

**Late 1902**

Trotsky was lost – the streets of London had once again not failed to completely confound him. It did not help that the only English he had learnt whilst in prison in Odessa was frightfully limited, and he thought about this as he struggled to read a street sign. Rain began to fall and he tightened his coat.

"It appears that your penchant for systematic thinking has once again inhibited you," Trotsky heard, and turned around to see Lenin standing behind him with a faint smirk. He immediately felt oddly timid and wished both to hang his head and to stare back into the eyes of the man who had just spoken. Lenin continued to talk, "but not to worry, this defect shouldn't be any more than a topographic cretinism."

Trotsky smiled - a gesture that seemed to repeat itself whenever he was in the presence of his new-found friend. "Would you happen to know where I live?" he asked humorously.

"I do and if you're lucky I just might let you know too," Lenin smiled back.

"It amazes me how dedicated you are to teasing me," Trotsky commented, "but I'm afraid that it is in vain, for as impaired as my sense of direction is I know that you and I live quite near to each other, do we not?"

"Yes," Lenin paused and looked at Trotsky, but then regained himself as if he had been caught doing something illicit, "indeed."

Trotsky's hair had begun to cling to his face as a result of the increasing rainfall, and Lenin took out an older copy of _Iskra _from his briefcase and, in jest, raised it over Trotsky's head. Trotsky's eyes went wide for a minute, but then he accepted the gesture and took over handling of the newspaper. Lenin seemed to approve of this and the two of them began to walk towards their respective dwellings.

"Indulge me," Trotsky said, and Lenin was struck by the word choice, "why do you continuously tell the editorial board that I am annoyed at not have been made a member?"

"Because you are," Lenin said as if it was indisputable.

"I am not," Trotsky argued back weakly, "anymore." He cringed as he realised how much of a childish tone seemed to be carried in his voice. Lenin chuckled warmly.

"Stop lying to yourself," Lenin spoke softly, "I know when you're lying."

Trotsky looked over and Lenin, "that's not possible."

Lenin did not say anything. Trotsky looked away from in, feeling a sensation of shame. He continued to walk even when he no longer heard Lenin's footsteps. Upon realising this he froze and swung around. Lenin stood behind him looking up at a house that, to someone who was used to the expanse of the Ukrainian countryside, appeared to be depressingly crushed in a street that seemed to run on for miles. How could anyone expect him to pick out this building from any other in this damn city? No wonder he was constantly lost. He continued to look at Lenin.

How constantly lost he was.

"I was thinking comrade," Lenin spoke. He sounded authoritarian, and the loud Russian voice seemed like such a piece of home in this unwelcoming place. Perhaps the man himself...Trotsky, as he often did, cut off his own thoughts. "I need to speak to Martov," Lenin finished speaking.

"You speak to Martov a lot," Trotsky commented, once again feeling ashamed at his disappointment over what Lenin's thoughts might have been. Lenin smiled with only one corner of his mouth.

"Lately, there has been a lot for us to talk about," he looked right at Trotsky and sighed, "do not act as if this is surprising. Tell me, do you not stand ideologically closer to Martov's beliefs?"

Trotsky retraced his steps and then went past Lenin and to the front door, "Martov and I share certain ideals, yes, but I don't want you to doubt that..." he didn't finish his sentence – but he didn't have to. Lenin followed him inside and Trotsky dropped the sodden newspaper. He turned to Lenin who was right behind him, caught between Trotsky and the door.

"Perhaps you look too far into the future for answers," Lenin suggested.

"Why do you insult me so?" Trotsky's words hitched in the middle, and at this Lenin smirked.

"Because, you take it so personally," Lenin walked past Trotsky and began to look around for Martov. He moved with the air of a man who was being very deliberate with his actions.

"Martov isn't home," Trotsky announced, and went up the stairs to his own bedroom. From behind him he heard Lenin cease all mobility. Trotsky himself froze at his bedroom door.

"Maybe it is me you wished to speak to," he spoke as if he had won an argument. Trotsky entered his room slowly and began to unpack his bag. He knew that Lenin was in the doorway.

"You're right." Lenin whispered.

"Don't be cruel to me," Trotsky said, "I can't take it."

"Yet you do not think it bothers me that I watch my closest comrade drift towards the man whom it is evident will soon be my rival?" Lenin pushed.

"I told you earlier-"

"You didn't tell me anything earlier," Lenin stared Trotsky down, "you stop 'telling me' every time we speak."

"Because," Trotsky sat on his bed, "there isn't any point. You just want to hear me say it, and by God don't you know I feel torn?"

"Torn or obligated?" Lenin asked, eyebrow raised.

"What's the difference?" Trotsky feared the answer and it showed in his voice.

"The difference is that if you were torn it is because you cannot make up your mind based on your own principles. If you are obligated then you are forming your ideas based on your fear that I may be wrong and that you may be in love with me anyway," Lenin explained calmly. Trotsky looked at him as if Lenin had broken the unspoken code. He began to shake and feared that he might loose consciousness but as he began to see those black spots Lenin appeared to be holding him upright. Without thinking, he kissed him hard and their bodies made a thud as they hit the wall. It seemed always to be him that lost his nerve. It was him that always lost the never-ending game of risk that they played. Each and every time he would just give in, like a child that could not control its impulsive desires.

And this was why he felt obligate to save them both.


	12. Let Me Go: September 1904

"**Let Me Go"****  
September 1904**

Trotsky was standing on the beige coloured sidewalk in Geneva, sucking on his last cigarette stump. Martov had taken the news of his resignation from the Menshevik party with a calm acceptance that almost resembled detachment. That hadn't really preoccupied Trotsky, however, who was glad to be free of the political party whose ideology he had quickly learned he could not accede to. And so he had traveled from Munich to Geneva to officially renounce his membership in the party.

The relief that came with liberating himself from the Mensheviks was a bittersweet one, however, as he could not help but feel he went astray after the split in 1903. He quickly banished those thoughts, not willing to explore that possibility.

He tossed his cigarette to the floor, and it breathed its last string of smoke as it fell. He followed it as he looked down, and continue to observe it thoughtlessly as it drowned in a puddle.

The street had been relatively devoid of people, so Trotsky looked up curiously when he heard footsteps approach ahead of him. He felt his stomach whirl when he noticed that the person who advanced was none other than Vladimir Lenin.

For a split second he contemplated turning around and hurrying in the opposite direction; but then he remembered that the street was a dead end and that he would probably have looked horribly ridiculous in doing so any way. So he stood still, unsure of what to expect.

"What an odd coincidence we should meet here," Lenin said mockingly when he was still quite a few steps separated from Trotsky.

"I doubt that," Trotsky replied in an equally loud voice, glad that Lenin had decided to cut that awkward moment in which they stared at each other from other ends of the street without speaking.

At that, Lenin smiled. "You know me so well," he remarked in a softer voice now that they stood close by each other. Trotsky didn't reply, but instead began to turn his gaze away from Lenin's, as if he were looking for something else to distract him from this conversation.

"Well, you are right," Lenin continued, "it is indeed not a coincidence that we should meet here. And not just because I live here now."

Now Trotsky's eyes shot up again, and when he turned to Lenin the latter thought he saw a hint of panic in his eyes.

"I wanted to see if it was true- that you were back, to renounce your membership of the Mensheviks," he grinned, "and that you came to do so in person."

Now Trotsky understood, and he sighed as he bowed his head down again. He nodded briefly, which was enough confirmation to Lenin.

"Ever so polite," he concluded with a laugh. For a while, there was silence.

"I don't understand why you think that would concern you," Trotsky suddenly spat, but still refusing to take his eyes off the sidewalk.

"Is it not clear?" Lenin asked, though he knew he shouldn't expect an answer. He took a deep breath, "now that you no longer side with Martov, does that not mean you no longer oppose me?" he said, in a voice that sounded pleading.

"It doesn't mean anything," Trotsky replied, lifting his head now to look at Lenin with outraged eyes. "Is that honestly what you think of me? That I am only capable of agreeing and opposing?"

Lenin shook his head softly, opening his mouth as he began to formulate his sentence.

"You can't do this- it isn't fair!" Trotsky continued, "you cannot try to pull me back to you every time our paths cross, you-" he gulped, and in a split second realized he had said more than he'd wanted to.

Lenin wasn't smiling anymore, which worried Trotsky even more.

"I don't think that," Lenin quickly contradicted, in a generally much more grave exterior. "I don't think that you can only agree or disagree."

Trotsky nodded, and took a small step forward, but carefully made sure not to get too close to Lenin. It was clear he wanted to leave, however.

"You don't have to go," Lenin therefore urged him, "you can still stay here, it would be much more- practical," he said, a certain level of panic in his voice now.

"For what?" Trotsky frowned.

"I have heard that there were disputes in, in your party," Lenin stuttered as he spoke, "you wanted them to cooperate with the Bolsheviks, did you not? Was that true?"

Trotsky shook his head, and made another feeble attempt at passing Lenin and walking away, but the latter tried to halt him by stretching out his hand, as though he wanted to push Trotsky back. Trotsky, however, responded quickly and jerked away from Lenin, so that they stood in front of each other now.

"Let me go," demanded Trotsky, "I want to go," he repeated, his voice wavering in such a way Lenin thought he heard despair in Trotsky's words.

"Why?" Lenin asked, as he had regained his composure. He looked Trotsky in his eyes calmly, waiting for a reply.

Trotsky chose not to answer. He wanted to go, but he couldn't tear himself away from Lenin, and he hated that. He despised it so strongly especially now, when he was the one that should have the upper hand, because he was the one who had left.


	13. Will You Follow Me: November 1902

**November 1902**

The common room of the house in which numerous members of the _Iskra _lived held a heavy atmosphere of heated discussed. Lenin stared across at Trotsky from across the room. The younger man was ranting to a few fellow newspaper workers, gesturing wildly as he spoke. Whenever anyone dared to disagree with his stipulations, Trotsky's face developed a stubborn pout that most charmed Lenin. However, it was all the more charming how vehemently Trotsky tried to hide it. It was a good few minutes before Lenin was noticed, but when he was there was no denying it.

"Vladimir Ilyich!" Trotsky called out, and jumped down from the coffee table he had been using as a podium. He ran across to Lenin, his expression so alive due to the excitement in the room. Additionally, it seemed that he had been drinking that night.

"Good evening," Lenin greeted him, "I have reviewed the notes that you have made for your upcoming lecture in Whitechapel. I wish to discuss them."

"Oh?" Trotsky's eyes seemed to panic for a second, before he quickly composed himself, "well thank you. But not here."

Lenin raised his eyebrows, "are you still 'ashamed of your ignorance'?" he quoted Trotsky in a mocking tone. As he had hoped, Trotsky's expression developed into one of peeved amusement, and he grabbed his coat that hung untidily from the back of a chair and walked out of the room. Lenin followed him after a few short conversations with the other inhabitants, namely to do with future developments in _Iskra_. It seemed for the moment that everything was operating fluently. But, Lenin anticipated, fractures would inevitably begin to show. He could feel the tide of change coming over them.

When he made his way out of the door he saw Trotsky leaning against the wall in the hallway, smoking. It was quite late outside, late enough to be very dark.

"Sometimes you are so ill-at-ease comrade, yet I can never figure out why," Trotsky said, "does something weigh upon your mind?"

"I would not wish to trouble you," Lenin said firmly, and they stood in silence for a while until Lenin spoke softly, "your notes. They are brilliant."

"You cannot truly think so," Trotsky was taken aback. He felt dizzy.

"They are not without their flaws, but their merits are extraordinary," Lenin elaborated.

"I am very much interested in the subject of your lecture. The defence of historical materialism against the criticisms of the so-called 'Russian subjective school'," He lowered his voice, "it's very fascinating."

"That means a lot to me," Trotsky put out his cigarette and immediately lit another, suddenly nervous, "but I am afraid it will fall on deaf ears. Do you not yourself agree that the British proletariat will never be able to break free to the surface and unite?"

"Perhaps not," Lenin mused, "but don't limit this to Britain."

"What do you mean?" Trotsky asked, once again taken by surprise.

"It has potential to spread to Germany and France," Lenin said, "besides, you yourself must travel Europe before you wish to have enough experience to change anything back in the homeland."

"Thank you." Trotsky said gratefully, but was finding the conversation increasingly heavy.

"It shows," Lenin smirked, "how hard you have been trying lately."

"I'm glad you appreciate that," Trotsky mumbled.

"Your work is always very driven. I like that," Lenin suddenly announced, and Trotsky looked at him speechlessly,

"What do you mean by that?" Trotsky murmured.

"I mean what I said. Do I confuse you?" Lenin asked without any venom in his voice.

"All the time," Trotsky confessed and Lenin chuckled.

"Well, I assure you that I do not mean to," Lenin said, "I am fond of the way you address people. I must say that I have no doubts in you as a public speaker."

"I like the way you talk," Trotsky told him, "it's good." He suddenly cringed at what he had said and Lenin laughed. Trotsky, still feeling vibrant from the lively debates back in the common room and feeling a sudden feeling of warmth, leaned forward without thinking and brushed their mouths together quickly, barely nipping at Lenin's bottom lip. He pulled back, still feeling Lenin's breath on his crooked smile. Lenin look back at him quizzically, but his expression was not unpleasant.

Trotsky stared at Lenin indignantly. He put out his latest cigarette. He had indeed indulged in a few drinks that evening, and he was now beginning to feel their full effects. "I should go," he said. When he tried to walk away he stumbled.

"You should, you're drunk." Lenin said.

"I am not!" Trotsky looked outraged, "how dare you?"

"You are right. I have been most wrong expect to be have this conversation with you whilst you are intoxicated," Lenin further taunted him, "but as a child I cannot blame you for having put yourself in such a stupor."

"Do not treat me this way," Trotsky said.

"Do not lie to me," Lenin retorted.

"I do not lie to you," Trotsky argued.

"Then tell me," Lenin paused, "that if the time comes and political bonds are broken that you will follow me."

That sentence sobered Trotsky up. "I can't do that," he whispered.

"No, of course not," Lenin said, his voice bittersweet.

"Ugh!" Trotsky spat angrily and pushed Lenin against the wall. In the same movement he timidly put his lips over Lenin's, suddenly feeling insatiably ravenous as he deepened the kiss - wanting to drown in the sensation. His mind felt blurry as if he no longer possessed the ability to think, because all that he could register was this pure gratification. The months of repressed desire seemed to leak out of him and it took all the strength in his body to finally break away in terror.

He wanted to feel disgust and shame but it never came. He could not look into his friend's eyes, and fell boneless against the wall. His heartbeats felt like explosions, and his hands shook uncontrollably and they restlessly fingered the loose threads of his trousers. There was a deafening panic in the silence that seemed to suffocate him. He heard Lenin move and he cringed.

The thought that he was moving away from him took over Trotsky and his head snapped up to see Lenin standing next to him. He was staring at him and Trotsky looked back at him as if expecting some sort of sentencing. But Lenin just smiled lightly and raised his eyebrows. Trotsky was unsure whether or not to feel relief but it came to him nonetheless.

"Look, I-" Trotsky wanted to speak but all at once it became apparent that he would never be able to say what he had to say. He would never be able to give voice to the feelings that he feared would dwell in his soul forever. This monumental realisation gave way instantaneously to a dull sorrow, and Trotsky looked at Lenin in panic – he wanted him to share this heartache with him forever.


	14. The Right Conclusions: March 1907

"**The Right Conclusions"****  
March 1907**

Trotsky was pacing hurriedly along the thin path, which was coated in snow and ice. He walked energetically, hunched over so as to protect his face from the blazing icy wind, which pierced his skin but did nothing to dampen his spirits. Soon he arrived at yet another Finnish village, which barely differed from the other villages that neighboured it.

Approaching the shambled heap of brown houses, Trotsky faltered for a brief second, as he realized he did not know which house to enter- Martov's instructions had been rather incomplete. He entered the village curiously, as if he was searching- no, expecting- to encounter something extraordinary.

For a while he all but forgot about his reasons for arriving at the village, when the wind lost some of its strength and turned into an icy breeze. This, combined with the smell of the pine-trees which rimmed the village, made his breaths taste like mint. He mused on this for a few seconds, observing the empty streets around him. Everything was clean, and white, and silent-

"Lev," a voice announced, not too far behind him. Hearing his own name being spoken in such a foreign place startled him, and then he remembered instantly why he was there in the first place. He turned instantly, and felt a surge of relief when he saw that the man who had uttered his name had been none other than Vladimir Ilyich.

"You have finally arrived," Lenin remarked as he continued to hurry towards him. When he reached Trotsky, he engulfed him in a brief hug, one which Trotsky awkwardly returned. The gesture felt odd, uncomfortable almost- but it was unmistakably a happy one. When Lenin took a step back, Trotsky laughed- so unusual did his friend's elation seem.

"I heard of your escape," Lenin continued, and laughed, "these Finnish activists have proven to be most involved in Russian revolutionary affairs," he continued to chuckle, seeming to be completely at ease. Trotsky was at first unsure of what to think of that.

"Speaking of which, I must give you a few addresses of people who I believe can help you in finding a place to live in this area," Lenin opened the wooden door of a house a few steps back. He held it open for Trotsky, who hurriedly stepped inside. "Remind me if I forget to give them to you," Lenin continued, and Trotsky nodded in response. When he got inside, he took his hands out of his pockets and held them up to his mouth in an attempt to warm them with his breath. He watched his friend with puzzled eyes as he got inside. Lenin closed the door and headed up the stairs immediately, without looking at Trotsky.

In each corner of each step of the stairs, a little mountain of dust had began to form. Overall, the house gave off a grimy impression, which made the cleanliness of the room which was unmistakably Lenin's all the more noticeable. When he entered it, Trotsky looked around in surprise. The room was littered with papers, but each and every one of them had been stacked up neatly. A stack of newspapers lay close by, each of them earmarked. Lenin picked it up, and held them out to Trotsky, who accepted them and held them in his extended hand.

"How long have you known of my return?" he finally spoke.

"About a day," Lenin mumbled, rifling through a stack of paper at the far end of the room. Trotsky sat down on a neatly made bed, and put the papers down beside him, "I spoke to Martov yesterday, who as you know lives close by. He told me you came to visit him," Lenin briefly looked up at Trotsky now, with a surreptitious grin.

Trotsky nodded in return, and looked down on the papers he had now pulled onto his lap, "We had much to discuss," he explained.

"So do we," Lenin replied, and then placed a stack of papers on the floor beside his desk, "I was most impressed by your recent work," he smiled faintly, indicating one of the few documents left on his desk. Trotsky looked over at it; it was evidently one of the pamphlets he had composed during his imprisonment.

"I must say, though I am relieved to see you a free man, that your imprisonment seems to have presented you with the time to develop a most interesting political theory," said Lenin, who now sat down on his desk, facing Trotsky.

"It seems we have both engaged in a lot of reading as of late," Trotsky smiled, letting his gaze glide over the room.

"Indeed- oh!" Lenin suddenly exclaimed, and sat up straighter. Trotsky turned his head to him in alarm, though he wasn't sure what he feared.

"Where are my manners," chuckled Lenin, "would you care for a drink? You must have been walking for quite some time, after all."

"Oh- yes, I would," Trotsky stammered, and smiled nervously. Lenin got up and walked out of the room. Trotsky followed him carefully, making sure not to tread on any loose sheets of paper. On the lower floor, hidden behind yet another door was a small kitchen. Lenin was already standing in it, pouring the contents of a small vase into a cup. Trotsky accepted it gratefully, and quickly finished the water. It was not until he had tasted the cool liquid when he realized how thirsty he had become. Still clutching the glass, he leaned against the counter.

"Indeed it seems," Lenin continued speaking as soon as Trotsky had finished the water, as though he was afraid of too much silence, "that we cannot conclude yet whether the revolutionary tide in Russia has subsided, or whether it is on the verge of rising again."

Trotsky nodded in agreement, "but either way, a second revolution must be made inevitable," he stated. Lenin smiled a broad smile at him.

"Ah, it is as though our two minds are one," he laughed, "though I cannot help but feel I must reprimand you for not yet having drawn the right conclusions," he continued on a more serious note now, and Trotsky looked up at him with his brow furrowed in confusion.

"The right conclusions?" he asked. Lenin smirked at him, and the playful nature of his expression assured Trotsky that Lenin's statement had been a jest, rather than criticism. A moment of passive silence passed by, and then Trotsky did understand.

"You wouldn't be referring to my lack of political party, would you?" he asked. Lenin laughed boisterously.

Trotsky finished buttoning up his coat. "Thank you," he mumbled when he took the sheet of paper Lenin had been holding for him. Trotsky was one step out the door, Lenin was still inside.

"It isn't too dark to find your way back, is it?" asked Lenin, his face hidden in the darkness of the house.

"No," Trotsky replied as he turned around and looked at the landscape. The light was fading, but everything was still clearly visible in the blue haze of the afternoon. The day was coming to an end. After a few seconds of silently contemplating the outside, Trotsky turned back around to see that Lenin had stepped in to the door opening and was looking at him quizzically.

"So I'll go now then," stated Trotsky questioningly. Lenin nodded, and then took another step so that he was now outside. He reached out to the paper, which Trotsky still clumsily clutched in his left hand.

"You should fold it," Lenin mumbled, and took the paper. Trotsky watched Lenin's hands as they folded the sheet into a small square. Lenin handed the paper back to him, and Trotsky quickly stuffed it in his pocket.

"You shouldn't lose them," Lenin continued, indicating Trotsky's pocket with a quick nod of the head, "I really think they will be very helpful."

"I appreciate it," Trotsky nodded. He sighed, as though it took a tremendous effort to speak.

"You remember your way back?" Lenin asked.

"Yes," he nodded. "Yes. I do." There was a brief pause in their conversation. The wind picked up in strength, and Lenin stepped back inside the house so as to shield himself from it. Trotsky seemed to be awakened by this, and began to step back towards the forest.

"Well, good luck," said Lenin when he recognized the gesture, "though I don't think you need it," he chuckled. "You got this far."

Trotsky's lips parted slightly, hunting for a proper goodbye. "Thank you," he eventually smiled awkwardly, and leaned forward. He pulled his right hand out of his pocket, and extended it to Lenin. As they shook hands, Lenin adopted that amused smile Trotsky knew so well- and indeed, Trotsky acknowledged, there was something humorous about it all.

A second or two later, Trotsky pulled his hand back and quickly placed it back in his pocket. With hunched shoulders, he offered Lenin a feeble smile and turned around quickly.

And for a while, all Lenin could hear was the sound of Trotsky's boots crushing the white snow.


	15. Late London Night: May 1907

**May 1907**

Trotsky was walking through Southgate road, having just attended another meeting at the Brotherhood Church. England, he mused, could not change. He felt that any hype that was generated by the revolution two years ago was simply a way for the British liberals to show off their connections to the cause, even if they did not truly exist. However, the money offered to them saved them from their decent, and for this he was thankful if not grateful. Dusk was falling, lacing everything with grey.

Trotsky soon found what he was hoping he would – Lenin was exiting a nearby cafe with several other Bolsheviks. Trotsky waited patiently for them to disperse and for Lenin to walk towards him. Somehow, this felt like a small victory.

"Do you know what it is that I find amusing?" Trotsky asked him, raising his eyebrows. Today, for once, he felt that he could assume the upper position in their conversation. He wanted to relish it before it slipped away from him - perhaps before something else slipped away too. But he didn't want to think like that. Although, inevitably it would slip away and inevitably he would dwell on it.

"Tell me," Lenin answered just as forcefully, showing not one sign of any humility but as if he was humouring him. Trotsky felt slightly irked by this but continued nonetheless.

"Five years ago I was the one that argued the importance of violence for an effective revolution," Trotsky began, "you seemed unsure then. Yet now you are encouraging the use of government robberies and militant operations."

"Ah," Lenin looked at him fondly, "you remember." There was a pause and as he thought for a moment, letting the meaning of his words dawn on Trotsky. He soon continued, "how did that conversation end?"

"You know full well that it did not," Trotsky snapped, "you postponed our discussion."

"And you wish to finish it now?" Lenin questioned.

"Yes, I do," Trotsky continued to stare at him, "I wish to know the reasoning behind ... those expropriations as you call them."

"You are calling them that too," Lenin observed, "it is not that I will refrain from telling you but I wish to know why as a non-voting delegate you feel that you should know anything more than what I have already said."

"Personal interest," Trotsky told him, and then smiled, "let's walk."

Lenin nodded approvingly and the two of them began to stroll through the busy London streets of a late afternoon.

"You may wish to know what I think," Trotsky said after a while, and looked over at Lenin who was looking back at him with a pleasant expression.

"I always have vested interested in your thoughts," he replied.

Trotsky looked away, "since I am currently without party-"

"Are you not as you put it earlier, a centrist?" Lenin cut in. Trotsky furrowed his brows.

"For the sake of this congress, I am. But that is only because I see no reason for there to be a partition in the first place," Trotsky quickly explained.

"I see," Lenin muttered, not in agreement, "but continue, what do you think?"

"I think that you are taking inspiration from me," Trotsky said slyly, "perhaps I made you think and you do not wish to admit it."

"You underestimate my understanding of the situation," Lenin said, "I myself can come to the conclusion that violence is necessary. Besides, I never denied it. You seem to be trying to name me a hypocrite but your dear Mensheviks are all for a peaceful approach."

"Don't be petty," Trotsky retorted, "I am no longer in alliance with them."

"Nor with the Bolsheviks," Lenin laughed, "when we first met I asked you how you fare in matters of theory. It seems you have taken that to heart."

"Are you insulting me?" Trotsky was suddenly afraid.

"I don't think so, but I'm not sure how to think about you," Lenin admitted, "your brilliance is tainted only with your unbridled ideals. You roam yet you do not make up your mind, yet you still hold power. Although, I fear for your sake that you cannot stand on your own for too much longer."

"I'm glad to hear you still think I'm brilliant," Trotsky said, somewhat bitterly. They were now approaching a park and when they were near enough Lenin entered it through its iron gates and sat down upon a bench overlooking a small pond. Trotsky joined him, feeling rather on edge.

"You keep fidgeting," Lenin called to attention, but he wasn't looking at Trotsky.

"I don't know how to think about you either, so it's not fair for you to act as if I have in some way offended you," Trotsky snapped.

"Oh?" Lenin smiled faintly.

"I'll admit that I wanted to hear you say that you came to the conclusion of a violent revolution thanks to me because at least then I would not feel completely detached from the Bolshevik faction," Trotsky sighed.

"As with everything else you say I'll take it at face-value and remind you that your detachment has always been of your own volition," Lenin replied.

"Perhaps, but as I have said I don't see a reason for a partition and therefore cannot hold concrete alliances!" Trotsky yelled and a couple of ducks flew away in fright. Lenin smirked.

"I don't know what you expect Lev. People listen to you and they admire you, myself amongst them. And maybe you will be able to lead a revolution all by yourself – I just don't want you to," Lenin explained, "but I'm not selfish in wishing for you to join the Bolsheviks. Naturally, I desire to have your capabilities amongst its members but I also want you to be able to put to use all of your talent," he turned to Trotsky and looked him straight in the eyes, "and trust me, if you join, your talents will _not _be wasted."

"Stop saying things like that," Trotsky fumed, "you always say things like that."

"I have not said anything of the kind for months. I thought that Finland was a rather neutral time for us," Lenin mused.

"This is better," Trotsky admitted, and laughed bitterly to himself, "it's always better when you're sincere."

"I would never be insincere in such matters, especially not to you," Lenin told him.

"I don't think so, as I believe that no matter what decision will be made at the end of this congress you will still do as you wish," Trotsky said.

"I would want you would do as you wish," Lenin spoke very softly.

"I want to kiss you," Trotsky whispered, and after a short delay Lenin closed the space between them and softly pressed their lips together. Trotsky kissed him slowly, because he knew this moment would not last long and because he didn't know if he would ever get this chance again. Lenin pulled away first, and pressed his forehead to Trotsky's for a few seconds before standing up.

"Are we really getting what we want?" he asked Trotsky, and walked away.


	16. I Would Rather: January 1918

"**I Would Rather Lose Lands to the Germans"****  
January 1918**

It was in late January when Trotsky finally returned to Moscow. There hadn't been much time for anything but heated debates with whomever he encountered in and around the Kremlin. The dull headache that had been weighing down on his temples only appeared to be growing with each second, and had finally reached its peak at the meeting of the active party workers.

The party was a chaotic mess- that much was clear. Different sides were pushing to all sides and threatened to rip the party itself to shreds. Trotsky's only consolation was that at least his viewpoint did not significantly differ from Lenin's at this point- but that fact was obscured now, as more and more leading party members began to advocate the concept of "revolutionary war". He felt discouraged, for it seemed at this point that the only way in which any action could be carried out would be through a split in the party and a _coup d' etat_.

As he walked into the meeting of the Central Committee a day later, he found there was something comforting about seeing Lenin sit at the table, his face solemn, and his hands clasped together as they rested on the table's surface. He was the last one to arrive, he noticed suddenly, and with embarrassment. He hurried to the last available seat, ensuring to maintain a composed exterior. Lenin looked up at him with a sudden jerk of the head when he sat. He acknowledged his arrival with a brief nod, his ever so observant eyes filled with dread. It was a small gesture, but told Trotsky enough to know that he was not entirely alone. This small moment of comfort was short-lived, however, as Bukharin, who Trotsky had managed to avoid since his return, then acknowledged him with a much less sympathetic appearance.

"Comrade Trotsky," he welcomed him, his voice laced with venom. "How were the trenches?"

"Deserted," he grumbled in response, and looked away. He had not the spirit to engage in these meaningless debates. Instead, he turned to Lenin, who he knew was the only one who had power enough to make a conclusive decision, even in these times of nearly hostile internal opposition.

"Neither war nor peace," Lenin finally concluded with an exhausted sigh, standing at the head of the table. "It is the only way in which we can prevent the looming conflicts." He let his eyes search the faces of his comrades for a few seconds, and was surprised to face instant opposition. After the bitter fight he had waged against the party organizations. For a moment it seemed as if the discussion had come to an end merely because each side had grown to weary of defending their statements.

"The soviets don't support the negotiations," a dull voice then pointed out again.

"It is time now for us to make decisions," Lenin instantly retorted, regaining some of his fervour. With that, he had effectively silenced the protester- but he didn't stop. "As our comrade Trotsky has informed us," he quickly let his eyes dart to Trotsky's, "the soldiers have no will to fight left- which means we cannot continue the war. If we do not end it, then continuing the negotiations while deliberately postponing a conclusion is our safest bet."

Lenin stopped, and looked around the room. It was clear that some of the hostility had subsided- most appeared to just be confused, and a few hushed dialogues broke out around the tables edge. Satisfied, he let his mouth curl into a smile, only to lose it instantly when he locked eyes with Trotsky. There was something peculiar about his look, and Lenin suddenly realized the problem had not been resolved as of yet.

"It isn't good enough," Trotsky now said in a soft yet determined voice, once it had become clear that at least the directing elements of the party had crossed the bridge to Lenin's stand. "Already, I have received many reports that the rest of Europe is under the impression that the negotiations are the result of a new alliance of sorts between Germany and our Russia."

A mumbling of voices erupted around the table, but Trotsky didn't let them speak up. "This interpretation of events has turned out to be particularly credible to the governments of Britain and France," he continued, pausing slightly so as to let the rest of the Bolsheviks interpret this new information. "It is obvious that if the bourgeoisie of the entente and the Social Democracy of Germany succeed in spreading the wrong idea about us to the workers, the future intervention of the Allies would be made all the simpler."

He appeared to have captured their full attention now. Even Bukharin had lost his usual sceptic air.

"We have to make it clear where we stand."

"All right," Lenin broke the contemplative silence that had followed. "Let's suppose that we have actually refused to sign a peace, and that the Germans answer it by an advance. What are you going to do then?" Lenin questioned him.

"We will sign peace at the point of a bayonet. The situation will be clear to all the world."

"But in that case, you won't support the slogan of revolutionary war, will you?"

''Under no circumstances."

"In that case, the experiment will probably not be so dangerous. We will only risk losing Estonia or Latvia." And with a sly chuckle, Lenin added: "For the sake of a good peace with Trotsky, Latvia and Estonia are worth losing."

Trotsky let his jaw drop in amazement, but then quickly clenched it again. He stared at Lenin with widened eyes, but soon remembered he was in a room filled with people, and sat back down. He averted his eyes from everyone, as he heard Lenin call for a vote.

When the room had emptied, it was as if even the air inside of it was peaceful and serene. Lenin still stood at the head of the table, slowly leafing through the reports of the meeting. He looked down kindly at each sheet of paper, as he passed his fingers along its edges and put it somewhere else. Trotsky hovered around the door, because that uneasy feeling in his stomach had not yet been settled. He closed the door.

"Estonia and Latvia are worth losing?" he blurted, feeling an unpleasant warmth spread to his head.

Lenin's smile spread in response. "I'll admit, it was rather insensitive," he looked up at Trotsky. "I wouldn't want to insinuate Estonia or Latvia are insignificant."

"It's as if-" Trotsky struggled for words, "as if everything is, is humorous, is insignificant," he suddenly felt nauseous.

"I wouldn't want to give that impression." Lenin's eyes regained that look of scrutiny which unsettled Trotsky. "I'd rather lose land to the Germans than make you think you're insignificant."

With that, the atmosphere flipped. Trotsky felt his heart rate pick up so that it seemed as though the room was buzzing. Feeling very grateful that he had decided to close the door several moments ago, Trotsky hurried forward on clumsy legs, placing one hand on the back of a chair so as to push himself around the corner, towards Lenin. The latter welcomed him with a wily smile, one which did not fade as Trotsky kissed him. Lenin extended his hand and held Trotsky's face with it, as if making sure he would stay where he was. A second passed by in which both men breathed heavily, their foreheads resting together. Then Lenin planted his lips on Trotsky's, and both men eagerly continued the kiss, because there was nothing that still needed to be said.


	17. Stuck: September 1915

"**Stuck"****  
September 1915**

The pale bricks which formed the walls of so many buildings in Zurich faded into a sky which was a very similar white shade. Trotsky stepped forwards hurriedly, suddenly feeling very disconcerted as he noticed this- it felt as though the sky and the city were closing in on him, trapping him the same way a baby gets trapped in a blanket.

There was no reason to stay, he had soon realized as the Zimmerwald Conference was coming to an end. So when the meeting itself was dismissed and all that needed to be said had been written down, Trotsky had been the first to scurry out into the open air and make his way down the narrow Swiss streets.

Lenin stood near the closed doors, surrounded by clusters of disgruntled men. It was now becoming apparent to him that he was not only the minority inside of the conference room; even now, outside, he was separated from the other socialists. Though everyone had gone silent, their disagreements still hung poignantly in the air. Lenin turned his head towards an alley and then noticed Lev Davidovich pacing down it, his shoulders hunched and his hands stuffed in his pockets. He was moving quickly, with determined steps. He wasn't sure why, but the sight of that flooded his chest with an unfamiliar anger. He wasn't sure what to make of it, but he knew instantly how to react.

He followed him. For a brief moment he was worried he might never catch up to Trotsky, but then his resolute walk began to resemble a run, and soon the distance between the two of them started shrinking.

They eventually reached a road which was devoid of any other people, and so the only noticeable sound was those of his own footsteps, and Trotsky's. That must have been what prompted Trotsky to slow down, nearly coming to a halt, and then hesitantly turn his head. When he noticed Lenin, he stopped walking, waiting calmly as his shoulders dropped. Lenin seized this opportunity to finally catch up with him, closing the distance between them in a flash. He stopped abruptly right in front of Trotsky, who stumbled backwards- as if Lenin had brought with him a brisk wind, pushing him away.

"Going back already?" Lenin asked, suddenly trembling as the anger welled up inside him again.

Trotsky nodded, seemingly unfazed by Lenin's erratic demeanour. "I didn't realize you intended to go the same way," he sniffed, allowing his mouth to contort into a smile. Then he started walking again, all the while looking at Lenin expectantly, as if he expected to be followed.

"Doesn't it mean anything to you?" he spat. That stopped Trotsky in his tracks. He frowned, and his lips quivered as they tried to decide which to words to speak. It was clear to Lenin he didn't understand where his hostility gushed from- and he had to admit that he didn't know it himself either. "You can't decide on anything, you can't do anything!" he exclaimed, his voice cracking on the last word.

He could see that sentence had awoken something inside Trotsky, whose eyes were now ablaze. "And now you're just leaving," he continued hurriedly, before Trotsky could get the chance to defend himself.

"What reason would I have to stay?" Trotsky replied, his eyes still questioning but his voice calm.

There was something about the composure in Trotsky's voice that made Lenin realize how loud his own voice had been. He gritted his teeth as he gathered his thought, and then spoke. "Do you not care anymore? Is that it?"

Trotsky shook his head in bewilderment. "Is that _what_? What do you want? Was it not my compromise that was finally adopted?"

"Yes. Your compromise," Lenin retorted, "you still can't decide on anything, you still have to always stay in the middle ground. How long is it going to last, Lev?"

"Well," Trotsky sighed, though the surreptitious smile on his lips indicated there was something about the scenario that pleased him. "I have to get to the train station in time, so perhaps we could continue this conversation as we walk?" he asked, briefly nodding his head towards the road ahead.

Lenin cleared his throat. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to turn around and run away, but he knew he couldn't leave things like this- so he followed him again. This time they walked at a slower pace, making their way through another narrow alleyway side by side.

"You don't think you're a hypocrite?" Lenin suddenly exclaimed, as he felt another wave of anger was over him and cloud his vision. "You can call on the proletarians of the world to unite in the manifesto, yet you are willing to accept that the socialist parties do not? Have you just given up?"

"I was under the impression that the parties were unified. By a compromise," Trotsky grinned briefly, though his brow was still furrowed, as it was whenever he engaged in political debate. It bothered Lenin, but he tried his best to regain some sensibility- he was being foolish, but he couldn't help it.

"The reaching of a compromise does not mean the socialists of Europe have united, not at all!"

Trotsky looked at Lenin expectantly- expecting an elaboration. Lenin now noticed that they had stopped walking, and he straightened himself up so as to appear more confident- there was something in Trotsky's eyes which unnerved him. He wouldn't let that show. A small part of him wanted to give up- he didn't understand why he had followed Trotsky. But yet something made him stay- he was stuck.

"There is no action being taken- not even by you! You're still in the middle, finding the middle ground between Martov and," he sighed, "and me."

"Is that what upsets you?" Trotsky asked, the volume in his voice lessening.

"Why shouldn't it?" Lenin retorted briskly, though inside he resented himself for showing too much emotion- for seeming upset. "There has been no revolution in ten years," he defended himself, "and it has been more than that since you were last on the very same side as me." His voice cracked at the end of the sentence, and he swallowed. Suddenly, he wished he could take back his words. Inhale them, take them out of the air around them which they now hovered in.

The silence was shattered- a woman threw open the shutters by her window and they banged against the wall. Trotsky jumped slightly at the noise, and Lenin took comfort in the notion that he seemed less at ease than he had at first.

"But- it wouldn't be true to claim that all hope is lost," Trotsky told him, "revolution can often- _has_ often acted as a catalyst to war, there can be a turn of events-"

"I know that," Lenin spat. "I understand that."

"Oh."

There was silence again, of the kind that very quickly became nearly unbearable. At least, according to Lenin.

"Well, I think this is where I turn the other way," he said, turning his head suddenly back to face Trotsky. "I'll let you get back to the train station alone."

Trotsky let his mouth fall open, and then closed it again. Lenin's mouth adopted a faint smirk- he felt a more serene state of mind take over.

"You should go," he pushed.

"I- don't want to," Trotsky said hesitantly, pronouncing his statement in such a way it more so resembled a question. Lenin smiled- though his eyes were far from happy.

"Good luck on your journey," he concluded with a nod of the head. Trotsky stared nothing, looking at him through weary eyes. This was enough, Lenin decided. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to leave this conversation behind him and walk back to where he'd come from. So he turned, leaving a bewildered Trotsky behind him, in the middle of the road.

Trotsky stood still for quite some time. He felt every one of his heartbeats, which had suddenly increased in their intensity- though he could not determine why, exactly. His dialogue with Lenin had paralyzed him. The subtle trembling of his hands and the dry feeling in his throat made him yearn for something. He didn't avert his eyes from Lenin, but watched him head down the street with a patient walk.

When his figure turned the corner and disappeared out of sight, Trotsky tore himself free and turned around, as continuing to go the same way he had been walking suddenly seemed like the best thing to do.


	18. Factory Encounter: November 1905

**Factory Encounter**

**Saint Petersburg  
November 1905 **

Trotsky observed the empty printing press as he tried to reflect on the day's events. He had spent the past endless months in a period of political ecstasy generated by the strikes and made more intoxicating by his involvement in the Petersburg Soviet and the revival of _Russkaya Gazeta. _The ideas put forth by Parvus and himself were finally catching some popularity – at least with a small number of Mensheviks, he conceded. The Bolsheviks never seemed appeared as keen. It not matter, he told himself, as revolution would come at last if it was to happen in one stage or two.

He stood in the dark metal room for many more moments as he knew that his wait would not be in vain. He would come. He could hear his footsteps approaching, steady and surefooted. Trotsky could not say the same for his own heartbeat.

He turned around to see Lenin, no more than a shape blocking the candle light by the open door. Was he smiling or not? Trotsky couldn't tell.

"What did you think of it?" Trotsky asked, referring to the speech he had made earlier that day. His voice appeared faulty. The other man responded calmly in comparison.

"It was interesting," Lenin mused, "there have been many comparisons between our theories. I believe that mine were held as the truer form of Russian Marxism."

"So they were," Trotsky hissed, and turned to Lenin, angry now that his face was not visible, "but your reckless democratic centralism is no more but a poison."

"How harsh of you," Lenin spoke in mock hurt, "I was merely trying to find a common ground."

"Well don't," Trotsky retaliated, "to be honest I'm surprised you've even made in to Russia. It's perplexing how few of us have bothered. And when I speak out and try to explain to those ignoramuses the importance of an active role they call me vain and seeking nothing more but popularity!" he laughed, filling the entire room with the noise and spun around to face Lenin, "but you, you have come."

"I have indeed," Lenin finally walked closer to Trotsky who was not expecting it and nervously took a couple of steps back, and the back of his knees made sharp and terrible contact with the edge of a table. He winced but would not look away from his old friend. Lenin was neat in appearance, as he always was.

As they both were, he thought.

"I had to see for myself," Lenin continued softly, "the scale of this revolution."

He stared right at him and Trotsky felt unnerved, looking away, "why have you really come?"

"Do you truly want to know? Because I will not come again and shall you spoil this meeting it will remained spoiled forever, "Lenin told him.

"How could I not want to know?" Trotsky retorted, "is it to attempt to persuade me to join you again?"

To this Lenin laughed loudly, and his laugh reached places that Trotsky's could not and the younger man almost lashed out at him for acting this way but instead he just glared at him - not believing him.

"I would not dare," Lenin's lips contorted into a bittersweet smile, "I came only because I could not bring myself not to."

Trotsky's breath hitched and he gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.

"You are the only member of the Social Democratic Worker's Party that has a hold in a Soviet core," Lenin produced a small but genuine smile, "perhaps the Bolsheviks were wrong after all."

"You don't believe that," Trotsky stated, suddenly dazed.

"No, not at all," Lenin responded, but upon seeing Trotsky get quite agitated he added, "we're all waiting, Lev. We're all waiting and we're all planning, yet the ground beneath us won't stand still."

There was a heavy silence in which their eyes locked and no words would mean anything.

"Go," Trotsky asked of him, ripping apart the purity of the silence, "I cannot stand this."

"Very well," Lenin said. Trotsky could not help but memorize every aspect of his position and expression before it was shattered by movement. "It was so very good to see you again, comrade."

Lenin disappeared in the same black shadow that he first appeared in. Trotsky wanted him to come back but he never did.


	19. I have no reason to resent:November 1905

**"I have no reason to resent"  
November 1905**

The room was stuffy, and dust hovered in the air locked in between the brown walls. A group of chairs stood scattered throughout the room, each of them occupied by a social revolutionary. In the far right corner of the room stood the only table, on which rested a cluster of shambled papers. Trotsky bowed over them, scribbling enthusiastically, writing the last lines for his upcoming speech. The rims of the pages were covered in an eclectic collection of doodles, but in the centre of the paper a neat handwriting formed a neat rectangle. The room had been filled with the heat of the fireplace for a while now, so some of those present waved papers around in an attempt to cool themselves. Trotsky didn´t seem bothered by the heat, though his cheeks were red and flustered.

The door swung open, and everyone noticed at once because the room wasn´t really all that big. Lenin stepped inside, followed by a gloating Avksentev.

"Comrades," he greeting the room absently, and Trotsky instantly noticed how tired he looked. His head had shot up suddenly, and now he passed the question of whether or not he should look back down back and forth in his head. The matter was soon decided, when Lenin looked at him briefly and nodded in acknowledgement. Trotsky nodded in return, and so turned his eyes back to his speech. Though suddenly, he appeared to have a great difficulty in deciphering its meaning.

The room filled with chatter now, that Lenin had positioned himself on a chair near the centre of the room, and found himself being bombarded with inquiries.

"How is the soviet getting along?" he answered. "I have certainly received positive news with regards to its progress."

"Well then certainly you have received the news that Krustalyov was elected chairman," spoke Lunacharsky.

"Yes, but," sounded a sharp voice from the left of the room, "the star of Krustalyov is setting. Today the strong man in the Soviet is Trotsky." A jumble of agreeing sounds followed. Trotsky's head snapped up again, his face still flustered in a now even greater bewilderment. To anyone else in the room, it would have appeared as though he was merely taken aback by the compliment; but Lenin could not help but notice that Trotsky's eyes had expectantly settled upon him. Lenin's features darkened for a brief moment, his eyebrows contorting.

"Well," he spoke, with a carefully placed air of control in his voice, "Trotsky has won this by his tireless and striking work." Trotsky seemed confused by, but accepting of this response and so turned his head back to the table. He put his pen down now, scanning the paper thoughtlessly.

Avksentev chuckled. "A true answer, but yet it smells slightly of dishonesty." And with that, the very thing which Trotsky had decided to ignore had been uttered. Now, naturally, it couldn't be ignored by him any longer.

"How could it be," intersected Novaya. "Surely even from abroad Trotsky's efforts must have seemed undeniable," she laughed, and smiled at Trotsky reassuringly.

"Perhaps he resents me for it?" he said now, cautiously. Lenin looked at him through dark eyes, which could be judged as angry by some. "Out of jealousy," he prodded.

This statement seemed to have awakened the room, and many leaned forward in their chairs, if it were that this brought them closer to the conversation. Sverchkov adopted a smile, and his eyes resembled that of a bird who thinks he's noticed a particularly juicy prey.

"I wouldn't dream of it," said Lenin. "I have no reason to resent Lev Davidovich," raising his voice at the last sentence so as to make it clear to the whole room.

"Though you might resent him for the power he has in the soviet," Sverchkov encouraged the discussion, letting his amused eyes dart to Trotsky, who hastily continued.

"After having left the Bolsheviks," he added, and smirked now, while his blue eyes glistened. Lenin's features turned bitter, and he eyes those surrounding him, suddenly feeling genuinely surrounded.

"Now, now," shushed Novaya. "This is a pointless conversation, there's no need to continue down this road."

"Is that what your aim is, then?" Lenin asked, staring at Trotsky as though he were the only one engaged in the discussion- as was, in a sense, the case. "To prove how well off you are, thanks to your split with the Bolsheviks? To prove that you have succeeded?"

"Haven't his actions done that already?" mused Sverchkov. Trotsky was now beginning to feel rater uncomfortable with the direction in which they were heading, and gave him a doubtful look.

"No," replied Lenin. A tense silence followed, in which no one really seemed to know what to say. Then Lenin got up abruptly, trembling slightly, though he made sure to hide that from the rest of those in the room. Everyone, even Sverchkov, shuffled about uncomfortably, moving back from the discussion they had been paying such close attention to. Lenin knew he couldn´t leave the room, not only because that would too obviously display his emotions, but also because he had just arrived, and could not bring himself to be so impolite. So indeed he did feel a surge of gratitude when Trotsky rose to his feet, his eyes pleading. He turned to him, as did many others-those who had not turned their eyes to other matters.

"Don´t-" he pleaded, feeling uncertain again, as he often did when he looked into Lenin´s dark eyes. "I shouldn´t have said that. Really, I do owe you a lot- perhaps even my career itself"

"It was a pointless discussion, as has been said," Lunacharsky hastily mumbled, "let´s put it behind us, comrades," to which many grumbled in agreeance. Both men sat back down, and the room erupted into a string of separate discussions, quickly changing the atmosphere of the room.

Trotsky sat at the table, on which his arms rested listlessly. His heart pounded, as he stared at Lenin. He wasn´t sure, not entirely, why that conversation had unnerved him so. But as he sat there in silence, he knew he would have to encounter him again, because there were so many words they could yet exchange that they had formed a lump in his throat which threatened to burst at the seams at any given moment.


	20. Willingly: Mid 1903

"**Willingly"**

**Mid-1903**

Still, even as he was walking along the muddy patch of grass in the park, he could hear the sound of the door slamming shut behind Lenin earlier that day- almost as if that very act of Lenin had traumatized him. A ridiculous thought of course, he hurriedly told himself, but yet he could not deny that something about Lenin's anger had surprised him. As he went over his interactions with Lenin thus far, he realized that he had not yet been exposed to the man´s anger in such a way. Or, indeed, to any form of his anger. He contemplated this, his brow furrowed and his eyes squint, as if reluctant to let in the daylight. He watched Dmitry without listening to him, merely glaring at his face as he spoke. It didn´t matter, he realized, whether he listened or not, for the man had been repeating himself for quite a while now. His face was not too different from Lenin´s, Trotsky realized as he began to observe the man in front of him more closely. They had the same pale skin, the same mouth…

He was disrupted from his pensive state when he realized Dmitry had stopped talking, and was looking back at him expectantly- expecting an answer. He shook his head briefly.

"Sorry-what?" he asked. Dmitry and the woman exchanged a quick annoyed look.

"You´re not listening to us," the man accused him bluntly.

"I am," Trotsky replied, "I just think it would be better if I be allowed to… think this over, on my own, for a while. I _am_ listening to you." He realized he seemed to be pleading, which in a sense he was- he had been held up here for hours now, and he wished dearly they would finally put an end to the conversation.

"We have orders," the woman told him with a stern face, "to bring you with us at any cost."

"I can´t decide on such a matter right this instant," Trotsky pleaded again. His patience began to crumble, and he couldn´t help but relinquish a sigh.

"We can´t afford to wait for you," Dmitry insisted. Trotsky glared at him again, suddenly feeling a wave of resentment towards the man.

"Well then I´ll decide," he said, and paused. In a way he enjoyed making them wait for his reply, especially since he knew it would not be the one they hoped for. "I refuse, then, to join you." The words were spoken with an air of determination, but Trotsky did not feel certain as he stated them. The only relief came with the knowledge that this would finally end the discussion, and that he had now at last made a decision on the matter which had plagued him for so long.

He now felt he had found his opportunity to leave Lenin´s messengers behind in the London park, and walked briskly away from them, acknowledging them one final time with a content smirk. As he had suspected, neither of them prevented him as he left, but both looked at them with faces that were both appalled and upset. He exhaled a shaky breath, as he made his way to the paved road. It would only be a matter of time now, he thought solemnly, before Lenin would come to see him, demanding an explanation of the statement he had just issued.

And, indeed, Lenin did not let him down. Trotsky had barely settled himself at his desk and picked up his pen when his door swung open. As he turned out, he was amused as he noticed how Lenin hurriedly grabbed on to the edge of the door so as to keep it from hitting the wall and make a sound. Over the course of the previous days, Trotsky had begun to perceive that Lenin was upset by the current state of events but had been, just as he was now, attempting to hide it. This knowledge brought Trotsky the odd sense of being in the possession of a great deal of power. Coming to the realization that writing wasn't going to be possible for another great deal of time, Trotsky dropped his pen.

"I wanted to hear it myself," Lenin began, "that you _refuse_."

Trotsky sighed. He felt even less happy with having spoken those words now that they were mimicked in such an angry tone by the man who he had so greatly come to value during his stay in London.

"I do," he acknowledged, accepting, albeit grudgingly, that he ought to stick with his decision. And although the hesitation was clear in his own mind, he did not let it show in his expression as he looked Vladimir Ilych in the eyes. For that reason, Lenin was nothing short of shocked to see the cold determination in Trotsky's eyes. He knew that perhaps he hadn't spend enough time with the young writer since his arrival in London, but he hadn't expected such a ruthless rejection now that he needed him the most. And so he made the abrupt decision to remind him of his inferiority.

"I am appalled at your lack of loyalty," he spat, noting as he did so Trotsky's discomfort, "for I hope I need not remind you that had it not been for my developing an interest in your writings, you would have been nothing but an unimportant political prisoner back in our beloved Tsarist Russia."

"I believe you have just done so," Trotsky hissed angrily now, as Lenin had brought up the topic he had hoped would have been avoided.

In the few moments when Trotsky pointedly looked away from Lenin, the latter gave the turn of the conversation a second thought, and allowed his anger to ebb.

"Naturally, I wouldn't wish to blackmail you with that," Lenin attempted to calm him.

"I'm glad," Trotsky lifted his eyes to look at him. He sighed, "take a seat," indicating the wooden chair in the corner. Lenin pulled the chair up closer to the desk, \and sat down.

"What if I were to tell you that I was hurt by your refusal?" he spoke, softly now. Now, Trotsky lifted his head to look at him.

"Is that what you are saying?"

"I thought I had found, in you, a political companion of sorts," he explained, trying not to answer his question directly, "so to hear now that you have parted ways with me is, indeed," he sighed and lowered his voice, "disheartening, if I may be a bit melodramatic."

Trotsky exhaled a large gush of air. He felt his heart rate increase as he realized that his decision would not be made without repercussions.

"I'd like to maintain the right to decide independently which side I wish to join, should a split indeed occur," Trotsky stated, "surely you will understand?"

The two men exchanged looks, and Lenin realized that the other was trying to maintain the discussion purely political now. He nodded faintly, and mustered a smile.

"Have I asked to much of you?" he needed to know.

"No," Trotsky spoke with a grand breath of air, "you haven't. You couldn't. I am…"

Lenin nodded, thus silencing him. He was content now that Trotsky's answer had calmed at least one of his numerous concerns.

"I won't object to you siding according to your own opinions, but I do wish you'll still find a way to support me- and my proposals."

Trotsky nodded hurriedly, but then stopped as he could not agree. He knew that he wouldn't be able to follow this man purely because he cherished their relationship so- yet throughout this conversation it had grown difficult for him not to oblige Lenin and give him the answer he so clearly craved. Submerged in thought, he let his eyes drift back to the table. Lenin stood and looked at him from above.

He searched for the right words, but there were none. With this conversation, Lenin's angry determination to win Trotsky back over to his side had somehow subsided, and he knew now that he couldn't force this man to his side; he wanted him to stand there willingly.


End file.
